


Wine and (A Lot Of) Cheesecake

by NovemberVenom



Category: MCSM, Minecraft: Story Mode - Fandom
Genre: Alcohol, Body Positivity, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Jetra Mention, Personal Canon, Self Care, Stuffing, Weight Gain, like really self indulgent, self indulgent, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 08:18:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18890749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovemberVenom/pseuds/NovemberVenom
Summary: After a brash encounter at a local eatery, Petra decides to treat herself for the night.





	Wine and (A Lot Of) Cheesecake

**Author's Note:**

> A very self indulgent fic that takes place in a personal canon. Please don't judge me. My friend begged me to post this.

Petra was furious. Indignant, even, in the defiant words that left her lips which creased back into a low smirk as soon as they'd stopped moving. 

“I'm a fat bitch and there's nothing you can do about it.” 

The reporter's eyes widened, blinking in shock. Then offense, when her head cocked to the side. “I'm sorry, excuse me?” 

“Didn't hear me the first time? Then _read. My. Lips._ ” Petra jabbed a the counter several times before pointing to herself, other fingers pulled into a tight fist. “I'm _fat,_ and it's _not_ going to change.” 

The other woman blinked again, not even a breath passing between her lips. The attention of other restaurant patrons has been captured, several faces from the surrounding tables turning away from their dinners and to the source of furious words. It wasn't as if people hadn't been staring already, no- it was uncommon for members of the Order of the Stone to make such casual public appearances, but on the contrary, rather common for a journalist to steal a word with them where they could. 

Now, when one of the Order _lashed out_ at one of those journalists? Far more uncommon, but worth watching nonetheless, to make a good story for other nosy and equally annoying journalists. 

Petra, despite everything those future reports would suggest, felt rather justified in her actions. Just because the woman sitting across from her was a stranger with power by no means meant she had the right to ask such heinous questions, especially ones in regards to her weight, how much she'd gained and how she intended to loose it. 

Causing a scene in a high-end restaurant was the least of Petra's worries, if her past amounted to anything. 

Petra stabbed a chunk of steak with her fork, bringing it to her mouth in one swift motion. It took half a chew before the meat was gone. “Don't look at me all offended like that. What makes you think you have the right to ask that stuff?” 

The journalist's head swiveled around the room only to be met with a sea of curious, judgmental eyes. She looked back to Petra, already beginning to lift herself from the seat. “I- well, I can just go-” 

Ivor, at long last from the seat adjacent to Petra's, spoke up, his frown equally as low as Petra's. “No, let's stay and chat. I _insist._ ” He extended his hand, setting it on the woman's free wrist before she'd been able to pull away. 

The color drained from her face, embarrassed pink dissolving into white. She sat as ordered. 

A waiter approached. His steps were slow, careful like someone approaching a frightened ocelot, his glasses sliding down the ridge of his nose as he straightened up to ask, “Is everything alright over h-” 

“Yeah, bring us a cookie cake. Fudge-dipped with the ice cream. Thanks.” 

Petra couldn't see the back of his neck, but didn't doubt that sweat was beading there, if the slick hair of his comb over had anything to say about it. (She was one wrong poke away from insulting that comb over, but alas, he was just a bystander to their wrath, and he would be bringing them cake. Even Petra knew not to bite the hand that fed her.) 

“So,” Ivor started for her as the waiter scurried away. His elbows were set on the table, fingers joined together. “I'm rather fascinated by your kind, you know. Why, pray tell, are you so interested in my daughter's weight?” 

The journalist had settled again, stiff as a board. 

“With- with all due respect, Mr. Reubens, the simple truth is just that it's information a lot of people would li- enjoy getting their hands on.” 

Ivor's brow twitched. “Lovely. And what would they do, after getting their hands on it?” 

Petra watched as the journalists smile morphed from scared to defensive, moving further away from the notion of ever having been genuine. Sweet, sunny smiles were so good at hiding malicious greed. 

She was looking for blackmail, just like they always did. 

“You _know_ what they do with it. I'm sorry, sir, but this society has standards-” 

“ _STANDARDS!?_ ” Ivor's fists came down upon the table as he stood, forks and plates jumping at the force. The journalist jumped, too, flinching back, her defensive smile all but gone and replaced with a look of terror. “She and I have experienced suffering beyond anything you could _imagine_ \- the whip of the Witherstorm, the fires of the Nether and the very _sting of death_ , and you expect us to live by abhorrent expectations that you call _STANDARDS?!_ ” 

Petra, through Ivor's ranting and raving, remained in her seat. Her arms were crossed, head nodding support of his word choice. 

The woman shrunk in her seat as Ivor stood over her, flinching again when his pointed finger whipped in the direction of the restaurant's door. “Out of our sight! _SCRAM!_ ” 

“Yuh- Yeah, what he said.” Petra added, admittedly a smidgen more sunken into her seat than she'd been before. 

(The rage of Ivor, now far more relaxed and peaceful in nature than he'd ever been in his entire history, was enough to make even a dragon flinch. Petra found no shame in the way her muscles tightened at his fiery words) 

If they hadn't had an audience before, they certainly had it then. All patrons, waiters and chefs had come to a full stop. Even fish in their tanks at the walls had slowed their pace, or at least it seemed such. Silently, the woman fumbled for her purse- an expensive leather purse that Petra suddenly regretted having not fooled with, by spilling her wine on it or otherwise -and jolted up, speedwalking for the door with her gaze on the marble floor, hair masking her face. The door swung open, closed, and she was gone. 

Ivor started at the door a moment longer. He huffed before sitting down again, grumbling. The others around them continued to stare. Ivor motioned his hand, shouting again. “Alright, show’s over! Get back your small talk.” 

And so they did, at least five people looking away or at each other. 

The moment Ivor's face met Petra's, it morphed into something entirely different. One of his special, cheeky grins that assured he was too smug with himself for his own good. 

It wasn't often they ate in public, for the very reason of what had just occurred. Yet, somehow, each time it happened, Ivor managed to lighten the blow to that of a feather reaching the ground after being blown about violently. 

Petra grinned back. 

If there was ever a time for her to love her father even more, or call him a crazy bastard, it was now. She did both, receiving a jab to her shoulder as a return gift. 

“You'd make a good scarecrow, you know. I don't think I've seen a journalist scurry off faster than that one.” 

“Oh, trust me,” Ivor adjusted himself in his seat, reaching for his fork where he'd left it. “I've sent them off faster than that, you just haven't been there. Now, I trust you still have an appetite?” 

The end of that was too soft, sodden with real concern rather than the joking, challenging tone he would have given her at home. 

So he _was_ afraid that the journalist had cut too deep. 

Petra opened her mouth to speak, but closed it. Motion and muttering returned to the restaurant just in time for the waiter to return with their dessert, steam wafting from a cooling layer of hot fudge that coated their treat. Two scoops of vanilla ice cream covered one half of the plate, already melting. 

She was sure to make it obvious how her eyes lit up when the dessert was set in front of them, running her tongue over her lips. 

“You bet I do,” 

\-- 

Petra's stomach was fat, spoiled by the countless meals she'd been treated with in weeks prior. Now, however, it was even bigger, swollen with delicious food and leftovers that she'd only continued to gorge herself on after returning home. Petra didn't dare bother with pants after that, her waistline far too dangerous for the fibers of even loose shorts or pajamas, A simple blanket would have to suffice. The comforter covered her well, spanning most of the couch. 

So what if she'd abandoned her shirt, too? A sports bra covered everything it needed to. The Order weren't strangers to eachother in the temple, and if any one of the others weren't happy with her appearance, she'd just send them out of the living room. 

Ivor, likely the only one in the temple who would suggest more modest apparel if he ran into her in the living room, had retired to his bedroom not long after their return home. There was no doubt he slept soundly now. Sleeping off meals was a significant portion of Ivor's daily to-do list. 

Petra leaned back on her mountain of pillows, scooping another spoonful of cookie dough ice cream into her mouth. The bowl was almost empty. 

Stress eating was one thing, but Petra liked to believe this was born of something different. Spite. Spite eating was a thing, wasn't It? If it wasn't, Petra supposed she'd have to be the first to claim it into existence. 

It wasn't like she was eating against her will, just that it felt like some sort of necessity. A call to justice. Petty revenge against the public eye, so to speak. 

(Even as she sat in the privacy if the living room, the effects would show later. As plentiful as her stomach was, her bras had grown tighter as of late.  
There was nothing better to help with spite than the added confidence of a bigger chest, but she'd never say that out loud. Not to anyone but Jesse, anyways, who already knew that fact.) 

Through all the food, Petra's focus had grown hazy, but still remained on the radio. In ten minutes she was due for the latest episode of a radio drama she'd caught onto: _The Wolf Of Spruce Ridge_ , it was called. Petra had yet to find out if it was about werewolves or ordinary murders, but she'd listen regardless. She closed her eyes after setting her empty bowl aside, waiting for the mindless commentary to end and for her show to start. She grasped for a bottle of wine on the nearby nightstand, taking yet another swig. She's stopped counting after her third glass, and had stopped bothering with wine glasses at the same point. 

“Looks like someone's treating herself tonight, huh?” 

Petra coughed, several streaks of translucent red slipping down her chin before she was able to lower the bottle, reaching for a napkin. 

Olivia had appeared at the mouth of the hallway, one hand on her hip, the other propping her against a living room bookshelf as she leaned. She wore a smirk, one that sparkled with flecks of redstone dust at her cheek that she had not yet washed off. She must have only just come from her workshop after changing into a new set of clothes. 

Petra's true response was choked, struggling against liquid that had almost gone down the wrong pipe. “Hey.” 

Olivia laughed. She made her way across the room, settling at the other end of Petra's couch, elbow on the armrest and cheek in her hand. “Someone's _really_ treating herself. Ice cream and wine is one thing, but no shirt? That's new.” 

Despite the heat rising in her cheeks, Petra smiled back. “No pants, either.” She reached forward for the coffee table, snatching one if the desserts she'd postponed in favor of ice cream. “And the package ain't complete without cheesecake. Oh, here. Welcome to Girl's Night.” 

The bottle of red wine, now corked, was tossed Olivia's way. She caught it by the neck. Olivia looked at her warmly, though still a bit smug, tinges of confusion swimming in her eyes. “More like Petra's night. What's the occasion?” 

“I deserve it.” Petra closed her lips around a forkful of cheesecake. She took another, swallowing before she spoke again. “Its to prove a point- some jerk at the restaurant assuming what I'm gonna do with my body and all that.” 

Olivia took her own swig from the bottle. As she looked at Petra in conversation, her eyes occasionally drifted down to the warrior's stomach. “Mm-hmm. Weight questions?” 

“Yep. She started going off- ‘ _nag nag nag, society has standards!_ ’ -that kind of shit. Ivor went off on her louder, though. Scared the bitch _riiight off_.” Petra drawled. She ran a hand over her stomach, eyes a little hazy. “So here's my revenge. I'm gonna get fatter and hope she has an aneurysm and dies.” 

Olivia snorted, muffling guffaw in her amusement. “Petra, I think you're drunk.” 

“Maybe so.” 

The world did seem rather unclear, light of the fireplace a bit brighter than it should have been, her lips too eager to pull into a goofy smile. Petra shrugged it off, though, opting to finish her slice of cheesecake and start another. She was treating herself tonight. More food, less shame. “Mm, hey, do we have chocolate chips? This could _so_ use some chocolate chips.” 

“Y'know…” Olivia rose to her feet, setting their wine on the coffee table. “I think you just want me to compensate for Jesse being out of town.”

Petra shrugged her shoulders. As much as she loved Jesse, some nights were best spent to herself. After all, if Jesse had been there, they would probably be making out, and Petra would miss her show. 

Speaking of which… 

“ _Now introducing: The Wolf Of Spruce Ridge! Settle in, folks, and find out who will survive the long night… and who will be hunted._ ” Following the static ridden words were synthetic howls and claps of thunder, already building imagery of the stormy, shadowy Spruce Ridge. 

“If you're getting the chocolate, hurry up!” Petra snagged the wine again, taking another quick swig. “I know you've been keeping up with this, too. Tonight's gonna be _GOOD._ ”


End file.
